by these disclosures. The return of Shaver to his parents was far from
being the pleasant little Christmas Eve adventure he had imagined. He had
only the lowest opinion of a father who would, on a winter evening,
carelessly leave his baby in a motor-car while he looked at pictures, and
who, finding both motor and baby gone, would take it for granted that the
baby's mother had run off with them. But these people were artists, and
artists, The Hopper had heard, were a queer breed, sadly lacking in
common sense. He tore the note into strips which he stuffed into his
pocket.

Depressed by the impenetrable wall of mystery along which he was groping,
he returned to the living-room, raised one of the windows and unbolted the
front door to make sure of an exit in case these strange, foolish Talbots
should unexpectedly return. The shades were up and he shielded his light
carefully with his cap as he passed rapidly about the room. It began to
look very much as though Shaver would spend Christmas at Happy Hill
Farm--a possibility that had not figured in The Hopper's calculations.

Flashing his lamp for a last survey a letter propped against a lamp on the
table arrested his eye. He dropped to the floor and crawled into a corner
where he turned his light upon the note and read, not without difficulty,
the following:--

_Seven o'clock._
_Dear Roger:--_


I've just got back from father's where I spent the last three
hours talking over our troubles. I didn't tell you I was going,
knowing you would think it foolish, but it seemed best, dear,